Chapter Three: Traces of Time

II. The Journey So Far

He was still that boy chasing the wind! Lacking a touch of handsomeness perhaps, but never short of spirit and flair! Reflecting on the path he had taken, Lin Fei smiled—at last, his efforts had borne fruit! At last, his dreams could be said to have come true!

Though Lin Fei was only twenty-three, his success was enough to fill an epic of perseverance! There’s only one word that captures his journey: legendary. No one believed he would succeed, no one thought he’d ever set foot on a true arena, no one imagined he could deliver a game-winning shot, and no one could foresee the dominance he would display on the court.

There was not a stir of wind. The sun blazed with nearly its full intensity. On the empty basketball court, a single figure—thump, thump—repeated the same shooting motion again and again! Unceasingly he shot, unceasingly the ball arced through sunlight, sweat sparkling like crystal across his brow.

Many would admire his “professional spirit”—a kind of maniacal diligence, bordering on madness! Some say true geniuses are always a bit unhinged. Like the mathematician Nash, who won the Nobel Prize at twenty-two, then lost himself to madness. When obsession with something runs deep enough, it turns to madness. What would become of this boy, Lin Fei, so entranced before us?

Is it any fun playing basketball alone?

Basketball is, at its heart, a game of confrontation. The NBA draws global attention not just because it is the highest level of the sport, but because of its fierce physical battles—offense and defense, wins and losses, beauty revealed through conflict. The modern game leans ever more toward physicality, with each player stronger than the last. Lin Fei’s slender frame, shooting alone again and again—it seemed pointless, unlikely to raise his game much! In matches, if no one guards you, your shot feels completely different from when you practice alone. True training happens in real games. Besides, basketball is a game for five; only through teamwork can its essence be revealed.

As you drew closer—oh?! His shooting was astonishingly accurate. In a school like this, such accuracy was rare; his shooting percentage must have been near ninety percent! Even more incredible, nearly all his shots were three-pointers—some from well beyond the arc.

Of course, without defenders, even many professionals could hit at such a rate. It’s said that, in practice, NBA player Arenas could hit nearly seventy-six percent of his one-handed threes, and when a journalist once asked the former Rockets player Novak how many threes he missed in an afternoon’s practice, he replied, “Three balls missed all afternoon!” But those are the world’s basketball elite—what was this boy before us? Nothing at all!

But that’s a story to be told slowly.

After enduring the torment of his final year in high school, entering university was like a compressed spring suddenly released! Dreams and hopes abounded, while time and real experience were scarce. University, in truth, was just an endless pursuit of fun, making up for everything missed in that last year of high school. As for study, the moment most students set foot on campus, ninety percent forget even their ambitions, if not even their own names.

The first place Lin Fei went upon arrival was the basketball court, drawn as if by some deep emotion, like meeting a long-lost friend.

It was a humble court—concrete, with a fiberglass hoop.

He took his ball, stood at the free-throw line, cradling it in both arms, gazing at the rim—familiar, yet suddenly distant. He mimed a shot, hesitated, then tried again—this time, the ball soared, swishing through the net. The sound of the ball brushing the net was, to him, as melodious as music from the heavens. Since childhood, he’d loved to hear that sound. It had been so long, yet his shooting motion remained as smooth and practiced as ever.

He first encountered the ball at around two years old—just a hazy memory, really, a natural-born passion. Back then, all he could do was push the ball around; more often than not, he’d stumble or chase after others dribbling, only to realize much later it was a volleyball he’d been after.

For a child from the countryside, any toy was a treasure, and the volleyball had been a hand-me-down from relatives. In those days, children played with mud, made their own slingshots and toy guns, or wielded sticks as swords—perhaps that’s what made him a fan of martial arts, always fantasizing about bringing kung fu onto the basketball court.

As a child, Lin was energetic, perhaps the reason for his decent physical condition.

By four or five, he’d gotten his hands on a basketball and soon learned to dribble. There was a neighbor’s older boy, bespectacled, who knew a bit of the game and demonstrated all kinds of dribbles—behind the back, through the legs, crossovers, spins, even a fadeaway jumper. These were indelible first impressions, carved deep into Lin’s heart.

Back then, he didn’t have the strength to get the ball to the rim, but he loved watching older kids shoot, even if they barely knew what basketball was—only that you had to throw the ball into that hoop.

A little older, he finally had the strength to shoot, and from then on, he was hooked on the feeling of making baskets—the sheer thrill of it, the joy that welled up from deep inside.

He loved watching those slightly older boys play, the same group every time, always after school, as the sun began to set. Thus, Lin Fei also grew to love the sunset—it was his time.

Before long, he was allowed on court himself—a mere eight-year-old, jostling in the fray, just trying to throw the ball in. The adults always said that only tall kids were suited for basketball. Though Lin was tall among his peers, he was far from what people imagined an athlete should be.

In those days, adults believed children were their only hope—and for children, the only hope was to study. Everything else was nonsense. The prevailing wisdom: “All trades are low, only study is high.”

Lin Fei’s parents were no different; they just wanted him to study well, to make something of himself.

But Lin Fei loved to play, even as his grades remained solid.

Later, basketball became his passion, and everyone knew how accurate his shot was. No one knew how he got so good, or when it happened—perhaps a natural gift for aiming, and a high basketball IQ.

In high school, his obsession with basketball led to frequent calls for his parents by teachers exasperated with his lack of focus. Gritting his teeth, he swore off the game—and kept his word, at least until college entrance exams were over. Many said his addiction to basketball was as strong as a craving for drugs or alcohol, but he managed to quit cold turkey.

That abstinence lasted a long time, but the basketball always remained, hidden deep within his heart.

He sat the college entrance exam in Hubei.

In the days after the exam, he reunited with basketball with wild abandon, like meeting an old friend after years apart, pouring out his stories and dreams for the future.

But fate was unkind; his results were disappointing, and he failed to enter a good school—a bitter blow.

Repeat a year? Or settle for a mediocre college? He chose to repeat, clinging to the dream of a top university. That year, he suppressed his passion for basketball even more, nearly to the point of madness. He had hoped for Wuhan University, but his scores fell far short—perhaps he was simply a dreamer with little to show for it.

He managed to get into a lower-tier financial college in Shandong—nothing prestigious. At university, students were like birds released from a cage, flying in every direction, never tiring.

Returning to his place, Lin Fei saw several groups playing basketball and joined in. He wondered if he still had his touch. Picking up the ball, he found his dribble a bit rusty, but as he tried a few crossovers and behind-the-back moves, the crowd was stunned—no one had ever seen this guy before. Usually, the good players were at least familiar, even if names were unknown. But this new face, with his dazzling crossovers, quick changes of direction, bursts of speed, and incredible hops, seemed like he belonged on the varsity team. He left them speechless, especially when he shifted from drives and layups to mid-range jumpers—pull-ups, stop-and-pop—all with unbelievable accuracy.

It was supposed to be just a friendly game, but soon it became clear there was no competition. No matter how they guarded him—man-to-man, with taller defenders, even double-teaming him—he kept scoring. His team dominated, or rather, Lin Fei dominated, the ball rarely leaving his hands except to kiss the rim.

Soon, a crowd gathered to watch him play. At this court, players often learned from each other, and many pointed and whispered about Lin Fei’s skills.

The match lost its fun—the others were overwhelmed, as if he were toying with children. Lin Fei didn’t care; he simply wanted to vent all the feelings pent up inside him through basketball.

When the others left, Lin Fei stayed to practice alone. Having not exercised in so long, his muscles began to ache, but he kept shooting, again and again, especially from three-point range. Most of his friends preferred to play inside, developing their post moves, but Lin Fei loved shooting from outside, where he felt free, unguarded, and his accuracy shone. Still, for the sake of fun, he often started from the perimeter, breaking in or finishing strong.

From the start of college, Lin Fei was in his element.

But what truly changed him was a single, devastating blow...